


Taiwa 2014

by rosequartsy



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: College AU, Extreme Pining, F/M, Pining, Sort Of, Yamaguchi is a good best friend, friend to lovers, i guess, lovestruck Tsukishima, the way I shamelessly shove Atsumu into everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24297052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosequartsy/pseuds/rosequartsy
Summary: It’s been a long time since Tsukishima has been back home. There is a lot that has stayed the same, but the one thing that’s different is enough to bring him back down memory lane
Relationships: Tsukishima Kei/Reader
Comments: 20
Kudos: 108





	Taiwa 2014

**Author's Note:**

> I highly encourage you to listen to COIN’s Malibu 1992 before you read this just to set the stage, but it holds up on its own

Sitting in Yamaguchi’s car with the windows down, messing up the left side of Tsukishima’s (too long) hair, he recalls one of the reasons he left Miyagi.

He has resigned to not lean his arm outside, because the grey exterior has super heated and he’s sure there’s a 1st degree burn that will be agitated the moment it slides against a volleyball court. He joked that Yamaguchi was trying to sabotage him, that maybe if they weren’t best friends he’d actually be upset.

But it’s not like Yamaguchi can block out the sun. He didn’t remember Miyagi summers being so damn brutal, especially not in June. The sun beamed down on them as if God had a laser pointer on Yamaguchi’s Acura LX, which seemed pretty harsh even if the car was old.

Sendai fades into the background, and the buildings get shorter and shorter like they’re descending stairs. Telephone wires criss cross the highways overhead, and incoming traffic gets a little congested. Yamaguchi leans back, exhaling slowly through his nose.

“It’s always like this now. Everyone’s moving out of Tokyo and coming up north and for what? So they can hike up grocery store prices?”

“That’s awfully prejudiced of you, Yamaguchi. Why would they raise prices if they don’t know how to cook?”

Yamaguchi laughs. “Tokyo boys ain’t shit.”

“Careful,” Tsukishima gives a close lipped smile. “Your country accent is slipping through.”

“Yours is all gone.”

“I never had an accent.”

Yamaguchi hums when he grips the steering wheel, jerking the car left as he changes lanes. “Sure.”

Tsukishima keeps his mouth shut, as if sealing the evidence.

The rip of motorbikes replaces the stalled car engines as his hometown becomes a highway exit. Like it’s been anything other than that.

Tsukishima reels as they start to pass familiar landmarks. He never realized it was all so close together; it seemed like trips that used to take hours were now whizzing past at the blink of an eye. It couldn’t be Yamaguchi’s featherfoot on the gas, either.

Suburbs isn't the right word to describe Taiwa. Hinata used to ride his bike uphill both ways to get to Karasuno, and all of his friends were spread out across the large expanse of undeveloped land. Animals likely outnumber the amount of residents in the town. When Kuroo used to call them country bumpkin crows, he wasn’t exaggerating.

Tsukishima narrows his eyes, and Yamaguchi’s gaze flickers over. “What’s got you so upset? You just got here.”

“It’s nothing,” he replies, then catches Yamaguchi still trying to look at him. “If I tell you, will you keep your eyes on the road?”

“As long as you don’t tell me something that’ll make me crash the car.”

“Just don’t crash the fucking car?”

“Spit it out, Tsukki!”

He grumbles at the old nickname. “I get enough of Koganegawa calling me that, thank you.” Date Tech’s school used to feel hours away; how long would it take under the wheels of this thing?

“Everything’s just. Closer than I remember.”

“Closer?”

“The places, I mean. The town feels smaller.”

A snort. “Sure is, hot shot. I see you got acclimated to Saitama real nice.”

There’s something charming about the northern drawl of Yamaguchi’s words he knew he’d hate coming out of his own mouth. “It’s not the same.”

Yamaguchi’s chuckle tapers into a sigh. “Neither are you.”

The blocks become residential, and houses he used to know are obscured into oblivion. The people that bike by are different, the parked cars newer, while some faces are just older in a way that settles like lead in Tsukishima’s stomach.

And then he sees it: the house with wood paneling in the front, white everywhere else. Atop the stone pillars are the plants still taller than him, even though he’s upwards of 195cm these days. White undershirts catch the summer breeze on the clothesline, billowing like flags. Cross-hatched metal gate, a new car in the driveway. Faded pink door.

Your house. With a for sale sign in the window.

Tsukishima nearly breaks his neck as Yamaguchi passes it without so much as a glance.

“Did you see that?”

“What?” Yamaguchi checks his mirrors. “Did I see what?”

The houses blend together once again. Everyone on the street carries on like Tsukishima hasn’t been shot through the chest. He slumps into his seat, listening to dogs barking and the laughter of children as everything goes accordingly.

“It’s nothing. A kid fell off his skateboard. It looked pretty awful.”

Yamaguchi hesitates, but doesn’t question it. He minds his business, even when Tsukishima’s scowl falls into something a little more melancholy than usual.

Tsukishima frowned from his post at the front desk, annoyed how your presence alone could stir... _things_ in him.

It had been a long time since he’d seen you at the museum. Perhaps that was good for his job security, but when he saw you walking up to him in a wool blazer that looks like a mirror image of the one he had on, he couldn’t help but admit he’d missed you. He didn’t know where you’d been, and he wanted to ask, but you flashed him the 460 yen entrance fee before he could speak.

“I’ll take the 4:15 personal guided tour.”

He schooled his face to keep it flat. “How many times have I told you—”

“It’s your last day, what are they going to do, fire you?”

The sarcasm was dry, and there was no twinkle in your eye. Tsukishima sighed, taking the money and putting it in the register. His replacement, a quickly scouted kid that was barely his shoulder height, tapped away on the computer next to him. “Hey, Hiroto.”

The boy was obviously younger, probably still in high school by the way his eyes widened when his senpai called for him. “Yes, Tsukishima-sama?”

You lean against the counter. “ _Sama?”_ you mouth, lips curling into that smirk he hated to love.

“Take over the front desk for me. I have a tour to do.”

Hiroto squinted in confusion, but as soon as Tsukishima slid out of the booth the kid immediately took his place. He looked so nervous and unsure, and you, still leaning over the counter, sent him a wink.

“Don’t worry kid, just make sure you turn this over.” Your fingers toyed with a plaque, tipping it over so it read _Closed_. Then, you cupped one hand over your mouth, whispering close to his ear.

“This guy sucks at customer service anyways, and they kept him for a whole year.” Tsukishima rolled his eyes at your loud-as-all-hell whisper, pulling your arm.

“Leave the kid alone.”

“I’m just giving him some friendly advice!”

“You’re going to give him a lot more than that if you keep with the “friendly” attitude.” Hiroto looked absolutely mortified, standing like a wooden plank at the front desk. You hummed.

“How old is he?”

Tsukishima ignored your question. You looped your arm with his. “I feel like college students keep getting smaller and smaller these days.”

“That’s because you hung out with giants.”

You walked through an ornate archway into an octagonal room filled with glass cases of samurai memorabilia. The armour room had only a few stragglers left, all of them in silent contemplation. Against the archway, an employee Tsukishima recognized gave him a long glance as you two strolled past, but Tsukishima was more preoccupied with looking at you. He would sneak glances at your reflection in the glass, concerned by the indifferent frown you sported. Maybe it was the exhibits; samurais and swords were never your thing. But there was something he couldn’t put his finger on that made him anxious.

You either didn’t notice him staring, or you didn’t care. Waltzing through the halls like _you_ were the guide, you two stepped into the completely secluded painting wing. Sharp angled walls jutted out to create more surfaces to hang the portraits. You tilted your chin, studying them like an art critic. 

“Are you going to miss working here?”

Tsukishima shrugged. “It was fine. Gave me a use for my degree.”

“You regretting college now that you’re a superstar athlete?” The words are punctuated with tiny jabs to his arm, but they lack conviction. “Kinda seems like a waste, huh?”

Tsukishima frowned. The implication that the past four years spent he being in your care and watching over you were suddenly useless didn’t sit right with him. “It’s not like I didn’t like it.”

“I know,” you sighed, moving onto the next painting. “It just seems like a detour now, doesn’t it? I mean, you’re a pro-athlete.”

There was a stress on how you said “athlete” that didn’t slip past him. He realized what was so off: you weren’t imitating the goofy poses of the long dead samurai anymore. Your all black outfit, once chic, seemed like you were in mourning. The heel clicks of your loafers brought his eyes back to you, where you stood with your hands grasped behind your back, pulling your fingers tightly.

Tsukishima drew up to your side. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

You whipped your head around like you’ve been caught. “What’re you talking about?”

He snorted. “You’re a bad liar, you know. Your accent is your tell.”

“ _Shut,”_ you started to say, though it lacked a hard _T_ and it made Tsukishima laugh. “Shut up.”

It almost feels normal between you two. Almost.

“It’s been weird, you know,” you started, voice barely a whisper. You looked like you were talking to Date Masamune’s portrait when you said “I’m back at home and you’re not there anymore.”

He didn’t know why you were saying that. He should have kicked himself in the ass and given you some kind of reassurance, but he was frozen, mouth agape with an unasked question.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Tsukishima always thought your profile should have been on these walls. You looked regal, even with your eyes fixed on the ground and an ashamed smile. “Who woulda thought two kids from Taiwa would be all the way out here, hm?” Your chuckle is self deprecating. “And now you’re gunna be playing for a Division One team in Saitama. Fuckin’ hot shot.”

You finally turn to him, head cocked with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m glad you’re getting out, Tsukki. It’s what you wanted, right?”

He can’t pinpoint what’s wrong with this image. Sometimes, it appears to him in dreams, your smile warped and faded like an overexposed photograph. The right words are floating in the ether above him, elusive, mocking. He only ever says the wrong ones.

“Yes, it is.” 

You looked into Masamune’s eyes once again, like you could read the brush strokes and find the answer to the universe in them. “You deserve it, you know. Miyagi never suited you.”

The irony was lost on him, as were most things in the moment. Your presence had now soured his mood, but you hooked your arms through his like nothing was wrong.

“C’mon, this is the last time I’ll ever step foot in the place again; tell me something cool.”

You didn’t say “probably.” Tsukishima dwells on this now more than ever, because his response never addressed that. “Did you know there’s an anime series based on the Date Clan.”

Your laugh; that’s what he was more focused on. The way it lit up your face, and how you said “seriously?” a little too loud for the dead silent museum. Tsukishima hasn’t been back to Sendai City museum either, because this memory is pristine, and it’s the last one he has of you.

Tsukishima’s family is still the same.

His mother has kept her hair short for the past fifteen years of her life, and Tsukishima might have a childlike tantrum if she’d cut it otherwise. But when Yamaguchi pulls up to his childhood home, she steps out of the house with her signature bob, sans a couple more grey hairs.

The way golden hour makes his mother look ethereal never ceases to make him smile. She gives Yamaguchi a one-armed hug as he carries Tsukishima’s luggage inside, and Yamaguchi kisses her on the cheek like a better son would.

All Tsukishima can do is stand in front of her with his hands behind his back, head dipped with a bashful smile as his mother cocks her hands on her hips. He feels sixteen again, fidgeting with his fingers when she comes closer, giving him a smile that could coax anything out of him.

“You never stop growing, do you?” She has to stand on her toes to brush back his fringe. “Even your hairs’ gotten longer.”

“Can you cut it for me? I only trust you.”

A smile. He’s suddenly even younger; twelve years old, standing in front of the house and holding up the award from the science fair. His mother is so brilliant that the sun goes away, shamed by her beauty.

“Of course, Kei. Come on, your brother’s waiting.”

Nothing’s changed in the house. Muscle memory brings him to the kitchen, where the table is set for four. Yamaguchi sheds his jacket, but Akiteru swoops behind him, snatching it from his hands.

“I’ll take that, Tadashi.” He’s as smooth and polite as ever, grinning the megawatt smile he inherited from their mother. Akiteru may be a full head shorter than Kei now, but the slap his older brother gives him still makes him lose balance.

“You done growin’ yet, you little jerk? Huh?” Akiteru has grown less doting in years gone by, much to Tsukishima’s own (disgusted) dismay. Akiteru stops, looking him up and down before that teasing grin distills into something prideful. In a flash, he is pulled into a tight hug, the pats on his back more tepid and loving. Tsukishima leans in for only a moment, and then Akiteru holds him at arms’ length.

He suspects Akiteru will say something sappy, but Yamaguchi’s jacket is thrust into his arms. “Be a good friend and put away Tadashi’s coat, will you?” He gives an infuriating wink before helping his mother in the kitchen.

Tsukishima turns, even if only to hide the sentimental smile that graces his lips. When dinner is finally ready, Tsukishima sits beside Yamaguchi, facing his mother, and suddenly he is nine years old again; Yamaguchi is over for dinner and Akiteru will no doubt embarrass him, but it’s okay because mom cooked their favorite. Time stands still and the sun doesn’t set, not for them.

It’s almost enough to make him forget. Almost.

“Did you know the (Surname) house is for sale?”

Yamaguchi blinks, but his mother doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, you saw?”

“It’s the one on the way here, with the pink door. It’s hard to miss.” Tsukishima keeps eating like its normal conversation—isn’t it?—but Yamaguchi’s eyes are trying to x-ray his skull.

“It’s been up for a little while, hasn’t it Teru?”

Akiteru, who’s sixth sense is his little brother’s emotions, clears his throat. “Probably since March.”

“They’ve been wanting to get rid of that house since (Name) left.”

Hearing your name out of another person’s mouth sends a ripple through him, like he’s been punched in the stomach. Akiteru and Yamaguchi don’t miss the way his breath hitches, how he drops his utensils to crack his knuckles.

“It’s probably too big for them anyways,” he says, returning to his meal, head bowed so he can’t see their prying eyes. “They’re getting kind of old.”

“It’s been so long since it was full, hasn’t it? Their older daughter just moved out, I think.”

His mother’s words buzz in his ears as the conversation drones on. Akiteru steers it away from the house, asking about Tsukishima’s appointed condo in Saitama, but he only gives one word answers through the fog in his mind.

Suddenly, he is eighteen, time fast forwarding as his glasses change and his hair gets shaggier, and you, like his mother, brush it out of his vision. Yamaguchi sits on Akiteru’s left because Tsukishima scowled at the idea of you sitting next to his brother. It’s not like it even matters, because you aren’t his: everyone in the room is showering you with attention and you have to divide yourself four ways, giving them individualized smiles.

“—(Name) really broke their hearts when she left.”

“Huh?”

As it turns out, eighteen wasn’t so long ago. His mother smiles fondly at a memory. “She was a firecracker, wasn’t she? Used to walk around like she owned the place. Her older sister was always more respectful.”

“Wasn’t her older sister in a rock band?” Akiteru reminisces.

“Yeah, but which one was constantly skipping school and getting caught with boys?”

“Younger sibling privileges. They get to do whatever they want and never get punished.”

His mother bridges her fingers, then leans her chin down. “But everyone still loved her, didn’t they?” His mother’s eyes are far away, like she was in the same memory as him. “I miss her.”

Tsukishima doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but when he says “Why’re you all talking like she’s dead? She just lives in...wherever the hell she got whisked off to. Who knows?” the entire table halts, staring at him. Akiteru and Yamaguchi share another secretive glance, and Tsukishima’s forehead throbs.

“Whatever, can we just talk about something else?”

Another reason Tsukishima revered his mother: she knew how to deal with him. “Of course dear,” she says, her voice never even missing a beat. “You haven’t even told us about your last match!”

“It was televised,” he drones, but Yamaguchi gangs up on him

“It was your first time playing against the Black Jackals, though.” Despite his years of practice, Yamaguchi does have some hesitance when he speaks. “Was it satisfying blocking Hinata’s spikes? I bet you liked shutting down Miya Atsumu.”

There’s a twitch to his lips as he gives Yamaguchi a grateful glance. The rest of dinner goes off with little conflict, and Tsukishima groans when Akiteru pulls out strawberry shortcake and the alcohol that pairs poorly with it—beer.

“I’m not drinking that,” Tsukshima means it, too, leaving his brother and Yamaguchi to their own devices. His mother cleans up easily with the extra set of hands, and while they chat over booze, he drops his things off in his old room.

It’s the same as when he left it.his old books are still on the shelves, the dinosaur figures covered in a thin, disrespectful layer of dirt. His first Karasuno jersey still hangs next to his door, swinging idly when he enters. 

It, like Taiwa, feels small. Perhaps it’s because his bed is still full sized, and his feet hang over the edge. His suitcase doesn’t really fit anywhere, and when he sits down at his desk, he can barely fit his knees under it. He feels like he’s in a dollhouse, or worse; a museum.

The last time he was here, he was moving out. But even still, there’s this unsettling feeling that he never truly left. Everything that ever mattered to him, Karasuno, Yamaguchi, his family, they were still here, like always.

So why did it feel like something was missing?

There’s a knock on the door he didn’t remember closing. When it opens, the light from the hallways creeps in, and Yamauchi peers in. “Why are the lights off?”

“It wasn’t dark when I sat down.”

Yamaguchi pushes the door open with his back and when Tsukishima sees why, he lets out a snort of disbelief. “Where did you dig that up?”

The Kahlua bottle has a layer of grime on it bleach couldn’t cut through. It’s barely half empty, sliding across the desk into Tskishima’s waiting hands. How his friend was able to balance the bottle, a beer, and a glass of milk between his fingers was beyond him; perhaps it was the years of volleyball under his belt.

Tsukishima isn’t light handed when he pours his drink, clicking the glass with Yamaguchi’s beer and relishing it with a long sip.

“You looked like you needed it.”

“I’m fine,” he hides his lie with another sip. Yamaguchi isn’t fooled in the slightest.

“I didn’t know they’d bring it up.”

“You guys can stop using euphemisms, you know.” His amber eyes are dull when he looks over his glasses. “She’s not Beetlejuice.”

Yamaguchi laughs. “I suppose she won’t appear if we speak her name three times, but she’s frightening all the same.”

“Frightening isn’t the right word,” Tsukishima thinks, staring at how the liquor and milk swirl galaxies in his glass. Maybe if he looks hard enough he’ll find the right word to describe you, but the thought stays unfinished.

Leaning on the wall, Yamaguchi lifts his head to look out the window at the last vestiges of light. “Sometimes I think I see her in the convenience store; you remember the one we used to eat at after practices in third year?” Tsukishima nods at the memory. “I’ll just be standing in line, and then out of the corner of my eye, there she is. Like a hallucination.”

Yamaguchi’s glazed eyes come back into focus, smiling sheepishly. “It’s stupid I know. It’s just,” he stares down at the floor, shifting his weight. “I know she hated Taiwa, but I thought she loved us.”

The drink has gone sour in his mouth. Tsukishima sets it down with a heavy thud, looking at Yamaguchi with a blank expression.

“I guess she didn’t.”

Yamaguchi frowns, then tilts his head back to finish his drink. “I don’t know why I thought I’d talk to you about it,” he humorlessly scoffs. “It’s been what, five years?”

“You’re the one seeing her in grocery stores. She got what she wanted; she left this place, married her rich CEO husband, and forgot about us ‘northern folk,’” Tsukishima exaggerates the accent he fought so hard not to maintain. “I’m not going down memory lane with you. Not this one.”

His tone drips with finality, and Yamaguchi pushes himself off the wall. “You don’t have to talk about it,” he says, leaving the Kahlua bottle on the desk. “But don’t act like you didn’t want her to stay, too.”

Yamaguchi leaves him alone in the dark. His footsteps pound down the staircase, and then they cease, Kei slouches into his chair, defeated. He tops off his drink, taking a miserable sip while his feet push the office chair side to side.

He spins idly, and the years unravel at the seams.

Not so suddenly, he is twenty years old. It’s not a milestone, not in Japan, not anywhere in the world, and yet, you wanted to celebrate.

The day after his birthday was a lot more memorable than the actual party. Not because he was black out drunk, but because when he came back to your apartment after getting a _fabulous_ nights rest, he was greeted with not just you, but your three overnight guests.

“What the hell happened to them?”

It was both luck and a curse that the MSBY Black Jackals were in town for a match. The few members that knew Tsukishima had come over for his birthday party, and the morning after they were face down at your kitchen table. Instead of this usual lively antics, they were slumped with hangovers, groaning in harmony.

“You’re too loooud Tsukki!” Bokuto yelled, making Atsumu Miya hiccup.

“Bokkun, please shut the fuck up,” he whispered, that melodic Kansai dialect shriveled and dry in his throat. His presence had been most shocking, but the way he called him “the snarky middle blocker” proved that he truly did remember him.

“Language,” Hinata’s tiny voice squeaked out and you chuckled behind your hand.

“They’ve been like this all morning. apparently they can’t head back in this condition, so,” you held up a frying pan. “I’m making breakfast.”

“Yer an angel, sweetheart,” Miya said, drawing himself up from the table. “If you had any painkillers you’d be a god.”

“You better get to worshipping then,” you pointed to the cabinet. “Bottom shelf, all the way against the wall.”

“Marry me,” he joked, and Tsukishima narrowed his eyes at your laughter. There was something about how your hair was pulled back with a headband that made him want to possessively kiss your forehead, but he held himself back.

“What?” You said, and he realized you’d been staring at him too. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“There’s nothing picture worthy here. Except maybe those two.” He jabbed a thumb to the duo rolling on the floor. “Might keep it for blackmail.”

“You can’t blackmail people who don’t get embarrassed,” you reminded him, beginning to crack eggs into a bowl. Everything looked so effortless when you did it; even Miya was impressed by how you whisked together the eggs in a homogenous scramble.

“Gosh, is there anything you can’t do?”

“Basic mathematics, hold her alcohol, go five seconds during a movie without crying,” Tsukishima ticked off his fingers. “Need I continue?”

“I can’t stand you, so there’s another thing,” you bit back, and Miya laughed behind you. You hummed.

“You’ve got a pretty voice, Miya-San. Where’re you from?”

He raised an eyebrow at your compliment. “Well ain’t you sweet? I’m from Hyogo, darlin’, more specifically Kawanishi.”

The stove made that loud _tick tick tick!_ As the flame flickers to life. It’s like that scene from Howl’s Moving Castle, and Tsukishima is enraptured at the sight of you pulling apart strips of bacon and placing them in the pan.

“Kawanishi,” you muttered, and Tsukishima knew that longing, tired voice of yours. It always broke his heart. “Is it big?”

“Not really; maybe ‘bout less than 200 thousand people.”

You scoffed. “Where I’m from, that's huge.”

The setter cocked his head. “Ain’t you from Sendai?”

“Nope,” you said, popping the last consonant. “I’m nobody from the middle of goddamn nowhere.”

“It’s not like you had to bike uphill both ways to get to school!” Hinata piped up from the table. “At least you lived closer to Karasuno than I did!”

“Ah, is that how you know this guy?” Miya jutted his chin toward the taller blonde. Their gazes met momentarily, and through Miya’s whisky brown eyes, Tsukishima saw a black hole of hunger. He looked back down to you as you drained the bacon onto a paper towel.

“Yup.” You were proud when you said it. “Tsukki and I have been together forever.”

“Oh? I didn’t know you were dating.”

Tsukishima didn’t correct him, but you did. There really wasn’t a need to, not with the words you said next.

“We’re not not dating. Hell, to be honest we don’t even go that far back. We’re both from Taiwa, which isn’t really weird because it’s a huge place, even though there’s barely thirty thousand people in it.” A fond smile played on your lips, and you fixed Tsukishima with an adoring look.

“Thirty thousand people, and I lived walking distance from you. And you never even knew I existed.”

If he wanted to kiss your head before, the urge was stronger now. He licked his lips, putting the feelings aside. “What do you want me to do, apologize?”

“Hmm, no. I think I’ve harassed you enough to make up for it.”

That little smile on your lips said it all. You busied yourself with cooking once again, and Miya looked between you two like there was something tangible. If there ever was a red string of fate tied to your pinkies, it has long since been severed. But in this memory, the two of you danced around each other in the kitchen with ease, plating breakfast for five like husband and wife.

Actually, it was just four. You returned to cleaning the apartment, quite a monumental task with all the drunk volleyball players you’d had over last night. Tsukishima had dipped after everyone was either safe at home or tucked in on your couch, and daylight was not kind to the aftermath.

“This is why I didn’t ask for a party,” he said, watching as you tossed beer cans into a trash bag.

“You should be grateful she threw ya a party, string bean,” Miya said in between bites of toast. The eggs on his plate matched the blonde in his hair, and Tsukishima can never unsee this. “Even more so that it was a rager.”

“Yeah! (Name)-san has always been so nice to you.”

Tsukishima choked on his drink. “You must have gotten the memory knocked out of your head with a receive, shrimp. That woman has never been kind to me.”

“I threw you a whole party!”

“I am once again asking when I told you to do that.”

He could hear your petty insults drift away as you walked out of the living room. There was only the sounds of utensils scraping against plates until you stomped back in, holding up a box that filled your arms. It’s wrapped up perfectly, because you were always good at that; in second year of high school, every member of the volleyball team brought their Secret Santa gifts for you to wrap. You charged everyone five dollars, except for him.

When you got closer he could see the dinosaur stickers you’d placed sporadically across the surface, and Miya snorted with laughter when you unceremoniously dropped the present in Tsukishima’s lap.

“Happy birthday, asshole,” you spat, but he could see how the corners of your mouth tipped up in a suppressed smile, getting wider by the second.

“Well? Open it Tsukki!”

“Yeah, I wanna see!”

The peanut gallery beside him banged their hands on the table, and Miya groaned, clutching his forehead. “I’m _begging_ you two to stop.”

Tsukishima let them carry on in their torture for a little while longer, liking the sight of the setter gnashing his teeth. When it became too much for even him, he opened the gift at the seams, careful not to rip the wrapping paper. It was pretty cute, and he smiled at the visual of you sitting down on your bedroom floor and strategically placing the stickers, your head bouncing to a playlist he’d shared with you.

When he lifted up one long edge, he caught a glimpse of the gift, and his breath hitched. He gazed up at you in disbelief, peeling it all back to reveal the turntable in all its glory. Tsukishima is a pro-athlete now; he could afford music systems that cost more than a regular citizen’s _car_ , and yet he still proudly displays this exact one in his Saitama apartment, and he always gets compliments from the girls he brings home. Above the wall, in a frame never to be touched, is the first record you ever gave him, the one he will find out momentarily was sitting under the box. But he wanted to drink in that particular moment, the moment his heart stopped completely.

The other three leaned over to get a better look at it, oohing and ahhing at the sight. Tsukishima was too busy memorizing your proud smile, your hand on your hips, and how the constriction of his heart resembled love a little too closely.

“Because you’re always lamenting you don’t have one. Just so you know, the only presents you’re ever getting from me are vinyls.”

He should have hugged you. He should have told you how much it meant to him, but he just assumed you could see it on his face. Maybe he expected too much from you.

But he did say, “Thank you, (name).” with the most sincerity he’d ever used, and you’d smiled like you knew he loved you.

Tsukishima knows he does not have enough money to buy a house, and isn’t even interested in buying one, but that doesn’t stop him from putting on his (second) best clothes and working through whatever the hell he’s going to say to the person who opens your (old) front door.

It’s the second dumbest thing he’s ever done. The neighborhood is bustling today, and a couple people do double takes as he strolls by with his headphones up, cap tilted low. He’s aware he kinda looks like he’s undercover in a Marvel movie, but there’s only so much he can do; height is a curse, he keeps telling people, but they never listen.

He blends in enough not to get stopped, which may be yet another curse, because then he’d have time to recollect his thoughts and ask what the fuck he thought he was doing walking to your parents house in the middle of the goddamn day like they didn’t have jobs. Had his brain finally conked out now that he was a jock for a living?

Maybe so, because the faded pink door was finally in sight. From the street he could see it clearly: a realtor’s number under the brilliant bold _FOR SALE_ , like it’s yelling at him to leave. But his eyes drift, catching the little details of your house.

Everything in his memories has shrunk and distorted, but not this place. It’s still as clear as day: the red brick steps up to the door, lined with potted plants your mother had a talent for growing. The iron gates have rusted with time, and they stand much shorter now that he’s 195 cm. The bushes were trimmed into weird rounded shapes, both indicative of the neighborhood, and still odd in your front yard. The second story balcony had the same sheets—the same fucking ones from high school! Tsukishima had to laugh.

And then his laugh tapers off as he realizes they’re yours. Purple with little moons and cartoon bunnies on them. _The sheets from Sailor Moon!_ Your whine is an echo in his ears.

He’s just standing there, hands in his pockets as the memories bombard him one by one, crowding his brain, making him lose his-

The front door opens, creaking like a horror movie sound effect. Tsukishima steps back, watching in terror as a figure comes into view, checking his pockets before lifting his head up and seeing a man—a fucking _giant—_ standing right outside his house.

“Hello?” he greets cautiously, stepping closer. 

Tsukishima holds in a breath. Your father has gotten old; almost all the hair on top of his head has thinned and greyed, like a samurai in a black and white movie. He’s still wearing the same uniform from the manufacturing plant he was employed at back when you were in high school, his ( _your_ ) surname stitched on the pocket. He holds a lunchbox in one hand, the other curled into a defensive fist by his side. Intimidating as always.

That is until he squints, and then his eyes light up with recognition. “Tsukishima? Tsukishima Kei?”

With equal hesitation Tsukishima walks up to the gate. Your father pushes it open, and when he walks down the steps to be on even ground with Tsukishima, he laughs at how much shorter he’s become.

“My god,” he whispers it like he’s staring at a ghost. Tsukishima feels too aware of his long legs and arms, holding them behind his back when he bows respectfully.

“(Surname)-san,” he says, and your father’s eyes twinkle. “It’s been a long time.”

“So it has. How have you been, boy? I hear you’re playing for Saitama now.”

The recognition has him reeling. It’s too much, he shouldn’t have come. His stunned silence makes your father laugh.

“No need to be modest about it! We’ve been following your progress, you know.” He sounds proud, as if he was talking to his own son. “I always brag to my coworkers that a pro-athlete used to come to my house. Three of em, really! How fortunate you’ve all been.”

“Thank you,” he says stiffly. “It’s been such a long time.”

“How is your mother?” She must be awfully lonely without you two boys in the house.”

“I’m visiting her now. She told me the house was for sale?”

Your father was never an idiot. He looks up at the for sale sign, something heavy settling on his shoulders. “Both of my daughters have moved farther away than we intended,” he sighs, although there is no particular sadness in his tone. “I’m proud of them both, really, although (Name) has less filial piety than her sister.”

“She was,” Tsukishima cannot use the word that comes to mind in front of your father. “Something.”

Your father barks out a laugh. “That’s the polite way to say she was a pain in the ass.” Tsukishima;s posture visibly relaxes. “You couldn’t tell her nothin’. Sort of a shame she’s someone’s housewife, ya know? She would have done great things.”

This time there is a wistful quality about his voice, but it vanishes as quickly as it came. “You know, you haven’t been here in a while. (Name)’s mom would love to see you. You were her favorite,of all (Name)’s friends, I think.”

A paternal pat on the arm makes all thoughts of weaseling out of this fly out the window. Tsukishima ascends the steps, the top of his head brushing just underneath the archway.

“They don’t make houses for your height, I’m afraid.”

“I’m used to it.”

He wasn’t sure why he expects the inside will be any different. There’s no new furniture, the walls are all the same color, even the books your parents kept out were arranged the same way from nearly five years ago. The only difference is you’re not running down the stairs to save him from the embarrassment of talking to your parents. 

“Honey?” your father’s voice calls out as they round a corner. You’ll never believe this: there was a professional athlete just standing outside.”

You mother looks over her small glasses from where she’s sitting, her brows furrowing, then raising as she places her hand over her mouth. Much like his own mother, time has been kind to her, the only signs of aging appearing in the grey that grew from her back roots.

“Oh my—” she’s standing in front of him with an awed look, and Tsukishima remembers that you and your mom have the same face, just older. He once thought he’d get to see you this age, maybe even in a house like this. His eyes fall to the floor, because your mother looks like the future he can no longer have.

She holds his arms like she’s going to lift him, her lower lip trembling. “Look at you! So tall, still so handsome. (Name) was an idiot for never making you my son-in-law.”

It used to be an embarrassment that pained him. Now it was bittersweetness filling his mouth as he thought of something to say to that. “ _Yeah, she was”_ feels a little too familiar, and not at all cognizant of his broken heart.

“Oi,’ your father warns. “Enough of that, yeah?”

“Oh,” she swats her hand in his direction, then looks back up to Tsukishima with praising eyes. “I’m kidding. Kind of.”

Tsukishima rubs his arm, giving her a strained grin. He didn’t expect your parents to reopen the wound he’s done his best to forget. Time is supposed to heal all, but you are a fever that’s never broken.

“I came by because I saw the house was for sale.”

Your mother’s face softens. “Oh, you must have so many memories here. Gosh, you haven’t been here in a long time.”

“Years” your father pipes up.

“ _Years_. You should head up to (Name)’s room, you might find something in there.”

This simultaneously piques his interest and fills him with existential dread. “Is that alright?”

“You’re probably the last person in Taiwa that has attachments to this house besides us.”

The sobering reality of that statement makes him drag his feet up the stairs. He looks back down, and he feels like he’s staring backwards in time. Every step forward is another year, and suddenly he’s anxious like he’s entering a girl’s room for the first time.

Your presence, though missing, is overwhelming. He remembers condensation from something dripping onto the hard word floors he’s standing on now, your heart patterned socks mopping it up behind him.

The sun was still up over the horizon, late July prickling Tsukishima’s bare arms with the last vestiges of heat. Your white dress shirt was speckled with little dots of red like a blood splatter.

“You look like a homicide victim.”

“You look like you swallowed blue paint.”

Convenience store slushies were actually a terrible way to beat the heat. They condensed and made the cup soggy, meanwhile the ice in the drink melts immediately after it leaves the machine. But Tsukishima wasn’t going to say no when after ten minutes of begging, Hinata proclaimed he would buy him “his last slushie of high school.” Tsukishima had just clicked his tongue, telling the excited middle blocker, “As long as you’re paying,” so he wouldn’t see how red his ears were.

Hinata and Yamaguchi chuckled at your little back and forth, while Kageyama slurped his drink with a seriousness that didn’t suit the moment. Bathed in sunshine, you all looked like bronze statues: immortal, eternal and infallible. That couldn’t be farther from the truth, but Tsukishima still liked the analogy.

“You would think after spending like, every waking moment together these two would be nicer to each other.” Hinata hummed.

“I thought graduation might make them sentimental,” Yamaguchi sighed. His hair was long back then, decorated with multicolored clips you had strategically placed to match their uniforms. Tsukishima has told his friend once and _only_ once that he liked this hairstyle on him the most. He doesn’t know if it’s because he has the happiest memories associated with it or not. Not that Tsukishima would ever say that.

Yamaguchi pulled his little ponytail taut. “And to think, I wanted them to get their happily ever after.” How a person could look so much like the tear drop emoji, Tsukishima would never know. Your disgusted grunt broke his thoughts.

“Ugh Yama, _please_ ,” you begged, throwing away your slushie like he’d spoiled your appetite. “Will you cut it out with this fantasy of yours?”

“What? Wouldn’t it be nice if my two friends got married?”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Tsukishima deadpanned.

“I’d divorce him and steal all his money.”

“Now you’re entertaining the thought.”

Hinata, jumped excitedly. “I think it’d be really cute! You guys are going to the same University right?”

Tsukishima bristled, staring at his shorter teammate with contempt. “That means nothing.”

“It means you still have time!”

Tsukishima hated the gremlins optimism, but in that moment, with the sun painting a strip of light across your already brilliant eyes, he’d had the fleeting thought that Hinata could be right.

(He can’t kid himself. It wasn’t a passing thought; it was all consuming, like a tsunami. He couldn’t sleep, because he would dream of domesticity, and your next words cemented how unrealistic this was.)

You waved your hand at Hinata. “I’m not the marrying type, Hinata-kun.”

(A complete lie, but back in 2014, he’d believed you.)

“Besides, what’s so exciting about marriage when Kageyama’s going to be a famous athlete by next year, hm? And you’re off to fucking _Brazil._ ”

All eyes shifted to the quiet setter, still casually drinking his slushie. When he opened his mouth to speak, his mouth was comically purple.

“Marriage isn’t any less significant than being an athlete.” He’d said, sounding very much like the student counselor. Then he grimaced. “But you two would be an unholy couple.”

You broke into piercing laughter. The sound still rings in Tsukishima’s ears. “Kags, will you join me and Tsukki in an unholy matrimony?”

“You want me to get married to you two?”

“No, idiot, she wants you to officiate the wedding.”

“What wedding?”

“I-“ Tsukishima shook his head. “Good fucking question. I’m not marrying you.”

He wonders from time to time if you’d been serious back then. It didn’t make any sense when you were third years, but in retrospect, maybe, _just maybe_ you were hinting something. That sun-made sparkle in your eyes glittered with dimension, and underneath the mirth was something Tsukishima never understood. He thought he would have more time to.

“My original point still stands,” you said, exasperated. “You’re all going off to do great things, and I’m just going to Tohoku.”

“Oi,” Tsukishima chided. “Don’t make it sound so inconsequential when I’m going there too.”

“You're literally going on a full ride with your volleyball scholarship,” you rolled your eyes. “So, no, it’s not inconsequential. It’s just not the same.”

Tsukishima will not be able to fully read you until freshman year of college, so he didn’t catch your down turned lips or how you tried to blink away welling tears. He just thought you were malfunctioning. “You’re being weird.”

“It’s not weird to miss your friends.”

“AHHH! (Name)!” Hinata jumped high enough to nearly kick you in the head. He looked at you with teary eyes and you’re astonished, even though you’ve known him for three years. “Don’t miss us! Don’t be sad!!”

“We’re not even gone yet,” Kageyama grumbles, and you grasped at your heart, confusing him.

“Kageyama...do you care about my feelings?”

“What about his response gave you that idea?”

The black haired setter clicked his tongue. “I’m just saying, we haven’t graduated yet so you don’t have anything to be sad about right now.”

“I can’t believe _the_ Kageyama Tobio is giving me a pep talk,” you dabbed at your eyes dramatically. Kageyama flicked water onto your face, and you giggled.

“Hey!” He was relentless, so you hid behind Tsukishima who didn’t have a quick enough reaction time to be mad at you. Not that he would say anything about the way your hands touched his sides, sending a jolt down his body. His face is probably as red as a slushie.

“Kageyama, when you’re rich and famous I’m going to send all the embarrassing pictures I have to the paparazzi.”

Yamaguchi laughed at the mental image. “That would take an hour long special.”

“A _two part_ hour long special.”

“You’re a fake friend,” Kageyama said, and you prop your head on his shoulder.

“That would imply that I don’t love you all, and that could never be true.”

You used to say such brash things so casually. Kageyama, with his congested emotions, bloomed into a furious blush. Hinata mocked him, pressing his wet hand against his heated face, much to Kageyama’s dismay. Chuckling at the freak duos antics, you shuffled into Tsukishima’s side, who simply looked on with indifference.

“You’re such a sap, (Name)-san,” Yamaguchi notes, and you gave him a brilliant smile, more golden and beautiful than the sunrise at their backs. The only thing Tsukishkma laments is that the smile wasn’t aimed at him.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Tsukishima walked ahead of everyone, slurping aggressively on his slushie, trying to quell the jealousy that erupted in his chest. He didn’t have the right to feel so possessive over a friendly declaration, but it still worked its way into his heart.

Suddenly you were beside him, leaning forward to catch his expression. “What’re you hiding from?”

“Who says I’m hiding.”

“Ya know, Tsukki, you shouldn’t be jealous,” Your grin is troubling and sweet, because you’re a walking contradiction. Here and gone all at once.

“Who says I’m—“

“Because I love you most of all.”

The door to your room is open. Tsukishima stands at the threshold, hands stuffed in his pockets so he can’t feel them tingle as he approaches.

Already he can tell something isn’t right. The blinds are closed even though it’s the middle of the day, making slits of light like jail bars shine across the floor. The walls are completely stripped of posters and pictures, but they never stripped away the paint. The blue has faded with years gone by, and everything is a hollow shell of what it used to be.

Tsukishima steps in. It doesn’t feel like anything special, which annoys him a little. But then again, how could it feel like anything different when the room has changed so much?

It’s a storage room now. Your bed is gone, your bedside table stuck up against the wall. Your antique dresser, the one you were so proud to steal from your sister, stands alone on the far wall, no clothes sticking out. Your closet is open with suitcases crammed inside, the hangers swinging idly and the floorboards creak under his weight.

It feels colder in here. There’s no peach scented candles, no window open, no nothing. This isn’t yours. This isn’t right.

It’s blasphemous what they’ve done. Tsukishima is not an irrational, angry person, and yet he has the violent urge to take a metal baseball bat and smash everything in your room. Not your room. Why would your mother say he might find something? What was there to find?

Tsukishima's trembling fingertips trace over a water raised circle on your bookshelf, raised scar that marked your existence. And there, on the side, where you marked the length of your growing ivy plant, the months going down down down like a timeline until they stop. Until you’re gone with hardly a trace.

Tsukishima balls his fists. You _did_ leave something behind. He just can’t touch it, can’t see it anywhere else but his mind's eye and he curses because no one can see how you’ve ruined his life and continue to, even in this void you’ve created in your absence.

He stops trying to control it. The memory swirls over him like a hurricane, pounding against his skull as tears well in his eyes. He falls to his knees to take a breath, then lays on the floor, in the exact spot where your bed used to be; in the middle of the room, parallel to the windows. He can almost feel the Sailor Moon sheets, closing his eyes. His panicked breathing splits into two, and like Athena from Zeus, you’ve sprung from his mind.

You’re catching your breath. The drawn curtains turn afternoon sunlight into a diffused red glow. It colors Kei’s pale skin and blonde hair a dreamy pink, and you roll onto your naked stomach, legs kicking up playfully.

Through the haze of warmth and pleasure, Kei cracks open an eye just a little bit to see you gazing at him with a sickly sweet smile. Your index finger traces his collarbone, setting fire to the skin underneath.

“What’re you doing?” He croaks, and your chuckle sends waves of pleasure to his crotch. You drag your blunt nails across his throat, and he suppresses a hiss.

“Can’t I touch you?”

“No.”

“Hmm. It’s a little late for that now, don’t you think?”

In all the years that came after this, Kei couldn’t figure out why this happened. It felt like, still feels like, a fluke the universe handed out to him. It never happens again and you never talk about it.

This memory is his most prized possession: he keeps it under lock and key in the back of his mind because the way his palm tenderly connects to your cheek baffles him. His hand slides down, knuckles skimming your jaw in soft strokes, like he’s carving you out of clay.

“You said—“

“I know what I said.” Your hand catches his wrist, bringing his long, slender digits to your lips. You inspect the cuts and bruises, how they’re bent and mangled from blocking harsh spikes and slamming down equally powerful ones. You kiss them like you could heal them; Kei wouldn’t put it past you, he'd simply add it to your list of feats.

“Did I change your mind?” He has a smile that’s a little too smug. You’re ignoring his face and he feels anxious; he wants your eyes on his so you’ll melt, so he can devour you while you helplessly watch just how you’ll go down.

That never happens. Not with you. You open your mouth and give one clean suck to his index finger, and Kei inhales through his nose to control the heat pooling to his abdomen.

You kiss the pad of his finger. “I guess I had second thoughts.”

“Second thoughts?”

“You’re trying to get into Tohokudai, right?”

“So are you.”

“Right. If we don’t get in—“

“Don’t jinx it, stupid.”

“—if _I_ don't get in, I don’t want to feel like I wasted my time.”

His brows furrow. Kei draws up on his side, catching himself with his elbow. His body is thoroughly wrecked from giving you _everything_ , and he shivers seeing the damage on your neck. But he pushes aside all thoughts of pleasure and stares down at you. “What are you talking about?”

Your hands drag down his chest, trailing the curves and contours of the muscle he’s built up for three years. His shoulders have broadened out and his waist tapers into a trim V. He is chiseled marble, a statue come to life in your bedroom. If only he were as permanent.

Kei follows your gaze, reaching down to intertwine your hands. The gesture is obscene intimate and reverent all at one. “(Name),” he pleads, and your eyes flicker up to his.

“You really think you’re going to stay in Miyagi? You, Tsukishima Kei? With the handsome face and the brains and the brawn?” You’re joking, trying to put on a smile but your voice is thick with emotion. You can’t hide, not after what you’ve just done. “You’re going to be, I don’t know, something great, and I’ll be here, like always.”

(Tsukishima, the one on the cold floor with his eyes closed could laugh. What he wouldn’t give to be _here_ , with you.)

The old him didn’t share that sentiment. “So, you wanted to have sex with me because you didn’t want to miss the opportunity?”

“You’re missing the point, Kei.”

“Hey now, just because we fucked doesn’t mean you can get familiar.”

You try to pull your hand out of his grip, but his fingers curl, locking you in. He pulls you closer so your bodies are flush, and lays his head next to yours.

“You act like you’re not more than capable of getting out on your own.”

“It’s easier for you,” you admit, words nothing but a whisper. “You’re so bright, Kei, so talented. I think it would be cruel if you didn’t leave.”

“God you’re so,” he‘s stuttering, trying to keep the awe from your voice. He can’t hide from you, not after what you’ve just said. “You don’t get it, do you? How you’re the only good thing about Taiwa, about fucking _Miyagi_.”

“Kei,” you whisper, one the verge of tears. “Kei stop.”

“This is the only time I’m going to say something nice about you, so.” He tilts your chin with the hand that’s bigger than your whole head, gentle as a lamb. “I don’t want to be like all the other Karasuno grads, living and dying here.”

“We can’t do anything about it.”

“Like hell we can’t. If either of us get out, if _I_ get out, we’re going together.”

“Ha,” you laugh dryly. It certainly knocks him down a peg to hear you reject his proposition. “Please don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”

“Well, you gotta keep up your end of the bargain. Get into Tohoku and we can take it from there. It’ll be you and me.”

“This doesn’t sound like the Kei I know,” you say coyly, lopsided smirk making him crazy. “What’s got you so sentimental all of a sudden?”

“It could be that there’s someone I don’t mind being sappy for, especially if they’re naked under me.”

“I’m not—“ the words are stolen from you as Kei bruises your lips with a kiss. His hands turn your cheek toward him, and he kisses you into the mattress, all while climbing on top of you. He pulls back with a satisfied smirk, your lips glistening with (his) saliva.

“You were saying?”

You shove him and he falls back against your knees. “No, _you_ were saying.”

Kei presses his chest against yours, kissing your neck, your jaw, then your lips in a softer kiss. “We’ll get out of here together. How does that sound?”

You don’t have a hopeful face. Your eyes have closed and you sigh, like you’re looking into the future and seeing Kei’s broken promise play over and over in your head. You two were young, but even you were less optimistic than he was.

You opened your eyes, letting your face morph into a happiness Kei now realizes is tinged with melancholy. He thinks it’s beautiful, in a tragic sense. Tragedies were timeless classics, like you.

“It sounds like you should put your money where your mouth is.”

“Do I ever disappoint?”

This brings out your real smile, beaming at him like the sun and the moon and every star in the galaxy. “Never. Not to me.”

Tsukishima lays on the cold floor with his hand over his eyes, lungs threatening to pop as he tries to exhale the guilt and heartache. None of the memories of this god forsaken town and this goddamn house hold anything but guilt, nothing but a knife in his stomach, the same one he stabbed into your back the day he signed on for the Saitama Spears.

He firmly believed that if you never try, it cannot break your heart. He took that attitude to volleyball and wasn’t proven wrong. Tsukishima does not know if it would hurt more if he’d tried with you. It wasn’t like he did it on purpose; he simply _forgot._ Somewhere in the shuffle, somewhere between keeping his promise and not, it slipped from his hands like a botched block.

He tries wiping the tears from his eyes. It’s not like thinking about it matters anymore; there’s no differentiation between the memories and the reality, only the same bitter, all consuming pain.

And yet, Tsukishima finds himself dissociating into the ceiling. If he stops breathing, he can hear your laughter echo off the walls. Perhaps his ghost and yours can live here forever, like they do in his mind.

It’s the only way he can keep his promise.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> 1: Upon editing this I shattered my own heart reading the last words im so distressed.  
> 2: SO I have no idea what town any of the schools are in, or what towns the characters live in. They mostly just say “Miyagi” which is an entire prefecture. Taiwa is a town right above Sendai, and the western part of it has mountains (like the ones Hinata has to cross to get to school) , so I decided that Tskishima and the reader were from there and ended up going to Tohoku, which is in Sendai.  
> 3: the way I shamelessly get Atsumu ito flirt with the reader in this 😤😤 I promise I hate him  
> 4: in chapter 378 of the manga when offered beer by Yamaguchi Tsukki says “I only drink Kahlua and milk” Which I—  
> 5: I’ve never responded to comments on my other two stories because I’m, essentially, a recluse, but seriously, thank you to everyone’s kind words on Drop the Guillotine and Loving is Easy, I appreciate y’all so much 💞
> 
> I'm cheezritsu on tumblr! i sometimes post shorter works on there too, so come say hi


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